The Ties that Bind
by The-Shepherd's-Daughter
Summary: "As long as the ties that bind us together are stronger than those that would tear us apart, all will be well." Unspoken hurts that have been festering in a certain young man's heart finally reach a crossroads and only an ultimate testing of familial bonds can decide the outcome. A short story.
1. Chapter I

**Warning:** This story will elude to the eventual events of the episode "Old Wounds". There won't be blatant spoilers, just general hintings.

 **Important Note:** This story was originally going to be posted entirely in my "The War Goes On" story collection, but it had other plans... So for those of you who read this first chapter that way, you're not seeing double! ;) As of posting this, there is something brand new in "The War Goes On" to take this one's place.

 **A/N:** What was going to be a substantial little ficlet for "TWGO" grew into this behemoth, so it deserves its own place. It could be said this is not my best work, but I truly am proud of how it turned out considering this topic is very complex. This short story will be in **four parts**. The remaining two of the four are completely written and currently being edited, while the fourth is halfway finished.

* * *

He was done; he was finally finished, and this time, it was no bluff call. No more games, no more dancing merrily (or not quite so) around the issue as if doing so would magically cause it to disappear. He was, at long last, quitting this impossible charade once and for all. Robin had been standing in the shadow of the Bat for long enough; it was high time that he finally be acknowledged as the capable individual he was.

If not by the citizens, then at the very least by the old man himself. After all he had done for Gotham and for Bruce, he deserved so much more than to be relegated to just another expendable extension of Batman's long-reaching arm of justice.

Dick Grayson had learned to let those feelings go in the past, however painful it was to bite back the hot words that often wished to spring past his tongue. After all, he had twelve years of practice in perfecting the act of bottling up his emotions.

But after the recent events of this particular evening, the realization came to him quite vividly that despite his feeble attempts to put his anger to bed for the greater good of all, the contempt he had unknowingly harbored toward his position as seemly just another one of Bruce's puppets to be manipulated as he wished had not dissipated as Dick had thought. In fact, it had mutated into something larger, something infinitely more impossible to ignore. He was bitter, angry, and his patience had at long last run dry.

On top of it all, he was getting the classic, Batman-style cold shoulder again, just because he had chosen a different approach other than the one blindly given to him without even acknowledging the possibility of his own input on the situation. So, instead of sticking his tail between his legs like he had always done before and yielding to the powers-that-be, Robin had acted on his own honed instincts.

His little defiance of authority (despite its apparent effectiveness in getting the job done) had earned him a Dark Knight-approved lecture on maturity of actions with the muted wails of the batmobile engine for background music as they sped back to the cave.

 _He_ was the one who needed to start acting "like the man he is and not the ' _boy_ wonder' he used to be"? Perhaps it was Bruce who should have been on the receiving end of that particular quip up about "acting like a mature adult" which he himself spouted so often, as the man pouted petulantly every time a mission did not go exactly as he had planned.

Alfred often mumbled behind his tea towels and good-naturedness (or often shouted loudly enough to fill the entire cave when said good-naturedness was stretched thin) about his master's penchant for "brooding".

Dick had never agreed with the loyal butler's choice of words; Bruce _pouted..._ like a toddler.

What had incited Bruce's current pouting session, which he was presently in the thick of while anchored at the seat of the batcave computer's main console, moodily staring the glowing screen into submission, had been a regular and very routine mission. Or so they had assumed from the way it had smoothly unfolded. It had begun, simply enough, with a spawning of new crimes in the city; the telltale sign of another criminal syndicate making themselves at home at the expense of the decent citizen.

Despite the fact that Dick's decision to deviate from the original plan of attack had caused him to step right into an unpredicted ambush attempt complete with a singing hail of bullets, the mission had not been a lost cause. In fact, it had been quite the contrary. The preemptive strike caused the soon-to-be newest addition to Arkham Asylum to lose all semblance of control over his rookie crew as the Dark Knight immediately swung into furious action, thus leaving all the evidence they would ever need open for the taking.

So despite the initial setback they encountered and the angry tear in his left arm carved by a stray bullet, the mission had been, in his opinion at least, a satisfying success. The case was closed, just not wrapped up in a pretty red ribbon like Batman had planned to tie _himself_.

As with most instances that spawned these increasingly frequent divisive episodes, the difference of opinion between the Bat and the Robin on the best course of action had caused that slight hiccup in the otherwise perfectly smooth workings of the last phase of Batman's "master plan".

This, of course, was unacceptable to the "ol' slave driver", as Dick had now become fond of coining him. And so, as was Bruce's wont in situations like these, the rest of drive back to the manor following his explosive lecture had been spent in stony cold silence, glowering disapproval coming off of the Dark Knight's shadowy form in tangible waves.

Dick had then mused, thanks to the abundance of thought-provoking time he had found himself with that evening as he attempted to buff the living daylights out of his motorcycle parked in the cave, that it had not been his original problem-solving that caused Bruce's latest and greatest of tight-lipped and stormy-faced episodes. No, it was this, and this fact only, that had the Dark Knight even more grim and growling than ever: it had not been _his_ idea.

The student had surpassed the teacher for once (surprise, surprise!), and it was that little fact alone that seemed to gall Bruce the most.

Bruce Wayne, in his truest form, was a master tactician in numerous ways, chief of all being psychological warfare. He wielded his knowledge of both friend and foe not unlike the ancient samurai had, with ruthlessness and precision, exploiting the point where the opponent was weakest for his own ends. Unlike the samurai, however, who fought for honor and whatnot, Bruce did not fight for such noble causes. No, he fought for his own desires and nothing else; his own private crusade against crime, criminals, and all those that stood between him and his almighty "moral codes".

And if someone dared to steer him away from the dark path he intentionally kept beneath his feet, however loving the intentions, they were mercilessly thrown under the metaphorical bus. He would do whatever it took to manipulate people into doing what he wanted, all for the sake of his so-called "justice".

Long story short, if there was one thing that Dick Grayson had learned after twelve years of following the Bat, it was this: don't get in his way...

Perhaps in another life, Batman's tireless quest for freedom from oppression by the sick and sadistic would be a commendable crusade. But to Dick, after spending his younger years watching from behind the lesser shadows as his mentor battled the darkness from within and from around him, the darkness Bruce tried so valiantly to repress had tainted the very moralities he held so dear.

While he continually won Gotham's freedom time and time again, he also succeeded in severing the ties that had helped make that quest for freedom possible, all the while justifying his actions as necessary to their common cause. In his quest for something so pure and righteous a desire, he often committed the most unforgivable of sins to reach that destination.

Dick could take it no longer. Nothing could change the man's mind, could change a part of his soul that was so ingrained. And it was this lack of receptivity to change that caused Dick's respect for his mentor to dissipate not unlike ocean waves beating continually over a weathering beach. The Robin was ready to spread his wings and move on. It _had_ to be done.

~oOo~

The swinging doors of the Wayne manor kitchen biffed against each other as unknown hands quickly sent them forward, signaling an entrance to the person who was currently hunched over the pristine metallic sink and waging his own private war on the mountain of suds in front of him.

"Hey Alfred, any more of that coffee left-"

Said butler, whose hands were buried deep beneath both steaming dishwater and a heap of foaming white soap bubbles, barely looked up from his engrossing task before responding to the footsteps that were quickly advancing towards the coffee pot in question.

"Any more of _that_ poured into you, Master Dick, and there'll be more coffee than blood in your veins!"

A good-natured chuckle was the only reply Alfred would receive for his quick wit as the young man's long strides reached the coffee maker. The butler of Wayne Manor paused in his chore to see the amusing frown of disappointment that crossed Dick's face as he raised the empty carafe to eye level and shook it gently just in case the priceless caffeinated liquid had suddenly become invisible.

A disappointed and rather theatrical sigh escaped the boy's chest as the carafe was quietly replaced. He then leaned companionably against the counter top, catching the butler's questioning eye.

"I take it your _errand_ was a success then," was the straightforward and pointed question Alfred posed to the young man opposite, his hands still busily scrubbing away.

The companionable smile that had been gracing Dick's features fell like a heavy curtain at his query, causing a pang of worry to stab the elder man's heart. Why could there never be simple answers in either of their lives?

Seemingly ignoring the question that had been posed to him, Dick walked forward and held out a hand toward the dish towel Alfred was currently using to scrub a casserole dish.

"Need a hand with those?"

Ordinarily, Alfred Pennyworth never wished anyone else to do _his_ job. It was not because of any misguided or irrational fear that another could not do the quality of work that he believed was required of the caretaker of Wayne Manor, but because he felt that they were his responsibilities and his alone; the other inhabitants of the manor had many more important things to concern themselves with than sinks full of dirty dishes and cans of furniture polish.

Yet one thing that had always amazed him was how willing Dick Grayson was to put aside his own personal concerns to help another, even in the most menial of tasks. Even from a young age, the boy had always seemed to wander into the kitchen and take up the towel whenever he needed to talk something through.

And Alfred, as much as his heart was often reticent to admit, treasured those conversations made side by side in front of a sink full of suds perhaps more than even the boy did.

They were two people encapsulated in the same crusade by the same man; their lives all intertwined in a such a strong bond that could not easily be broken. And when the time arose when they needed someone who understood their fears, hopes, and sorrows, who better than to go to than the few people who could understand them as well each other could?

"It's not that simple," came the quietly murmured reply after several long moments of silence, Dick's eyes flicking from Alfred's questioning gaze to the tiny bubbles slowly climbing upwards toward his rolled up sleeves.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips seemingly unbidden as though the words he was about to say bore unspeakable weight and gravity. Alfred could not help but steal himself for the endless possibility of answers that the young man could give to clarify his initially cryptic response. Yet he knew that in all of those realms, there was definitely something foreboding about the way Dick was speaking. Something had to be seriously wrong for the normally upbeat and cheerful young man to be this down in the mouth.

"I just- I just can't do this anymore, Alfred…"

The butler had readied himself for a myriad of possible problems that this night could have dredged to the surface, but the strange admission from the young man opposite only served to confound him. Despite Alfred's personal curiosity towards the boy's strange reply, he immediately noticed the young man had since gone unusually quiet without making eye contact, apparently readying himself for the inevitable response he believed he was going to receive.

Instead, though Alfred knew deep down he must accept what Dick had truly meant despite what that revelation could entail for them all, he probed the young man further.

"Cannot do _what_ , Master Dick?"

"I just can't play this charade any more, Alfred… At least, not after tonight anyway."

There it was…

The remaining confusion the butler had initially faced quickly dissipated, leaving a growing semblance of dread pooling at the bottom of his stomach as one of his greater fears began to take shape.

Though he had never believed in dabbling within the affairs of others, especially casting judgement on the actions of his employer and pseudo-son, that did not mean he did not keep a weather ear and eye open for possible troubles. And from this higher, uninvolved vantage point, he had watched the growing rift between Bruce and his ward spread wider and wider as each night and mission passed.

It was no secret that Bruce was a stubborn man, unwilling to bend or compromise his mission and ideals, but Dick Grayson had his own massive amount of bull-headedness to match. Perhaps in being so fundamentally alike, they drove each other apart. Dick's confession did not take Alfred by surprise, and yet he still could not fully believe that the possibility of this strange family unit they had come to enjoy together being severed could ever exist in his lifetime.

What did surprise the elder man, however, was the demeanor in which the young man was acting. In many times past, Dick had taken out his frustrations in not so dissimilar a way than Bruce had years ago, with shaking of fists and bellowed grumbling to rival any childish tantrum.

Yet to the boy's credit, after many an evening spent in the very task they were completing now, a good heart-to-heart conversation was all it took to bring relative calm back into his demeanor and allow some of that sunny disposition Alfred appreciated so greatly to return to the surface.

This time, however, despite the apparent hurt the boy was feeling, his voice was soft and his gaze diverted. Unlike the many threats made before in anger, this bode of a true confession, of a spirit so truly broken that what had before been merely a bluff had become a determined course of action. And this time, Alfred was at a loss for any encouraging words.

So the butler instead began at the only place he could: the beginning. At first the lad seemed disinterested in explaining what had prompted this new and improved revelation, only repeating his fervent desire to be finally finished with his mentor's games. Alfred listened quietly as the boy spewed forth the frustrations that being Robin apparently brought to him; he spoke of his desire to add to Bruce's methodology, of his own philosophies about crime-fighting. Yet he also spoke of his repeated suggestions and actions being ripped apart by the very man he wished to help.

"He pushes me aside, treats me like a stupid rookie. I can't keep on living like that…"

Alfred could only deduce what had happened that night to bring this apparent catalyst of emotions into play, but as he watched the young man's words and expression slowly grow more and more acrid as he spoke, watched the subtle yet telltale flinch that tremored across his face every time he reached out with his left arm toward the top cupboards to replace the clean dishes, he believed he understood what had driven the man he had raised to be as angry with his protégé as he apparently had been this night.

After the young man had vented whatever pent up emotions were roiling within his system, Alfred attempted to do what had always been successful in the past.

He tried to show Dick the other side to the argument, to somehow help him understand in perhaps a small way the workings of the Batman's mind. Despite the fact that Alfred had yet to truly understand the strange logic that dictated Bruce Wayne's actions, he knew the brash and increasingly defiant youth caused said man many a sleepless morning.

Yet as hard as he tried to show the young man how Bruce's actions, however misguided they often tended to be, were meant to protect him, the words only caused Dick's anger to steadily rise. This time, the words that had so often charmed him before had finally lost their power to persuade.

"You must understand, Master Dick. He's doing those things for your own good."

Finally cumulating in a tremendous clatter of silverware, a great splash of dishwater, and a loud shout that effectively startled the elder butler enough to drop the sponge in his hand with a wet plop, the young man bellowed, "You keep on saying that! For my own good? When will you both realize _I'm not a stupid child anymore_?!"

Alfred was speechless for a moment, looking into the blue eyes blazing icy fire that belonged to a boy who desperately wished to be treated like the man he was rapidly becoming. Yet the older man's gaze hardened, the vitriol of the boy's words overcoming the pity that had begun to gather in his heart.

To become a man was to put off childish attitudes, and this particular young man had proven in this very moment that he had not quite overcome that tendency yet.

"You were never a _stupid child_ in our eyes, Richard. But by the way you're favoring that arm, I'd say he has good provocation to be on edge tonight…"

Dick's mouth immediately snapped closed mid retort at Alfred's chastising words, his eyes widening minutely in surprise and his right hand unconsciously coming forward to clutch his left arm protectively. How on earth could the butler have even noticed his injury despite his valiant attempts to conceal it underneath the clothes he had hastily put on? Oh right, field medic… Who was he kidding, trying to fool the man who spent his life patching up the Dark Knight in his spare time.

Besides, if Dick was honest with himself, it was not the butler's fault that Bruce was so ill equipped for acting like a normal human being with normal human emotion. Why be angry at Alfred for something he had no control over nor any say in the matter? It was Alfred's duty to back up Bruce's decisions. Heck, one could even say it was part and parcel of the job description.

Perhaps the decision he had come to while engulfed in the silence of the batcave earlier in the evening was _not_ such a bad idea after all. He was foolish to think that they could all agree on so complicated a situation that they perhaps had yet to even fully understand.

"That's why I've decided to hang up the cape, Alfred. It's time for Batman's sidekick to move on…"

And as he heard those words being spoken, Alfred Pennyworth knew that, deep within his soul despite his fervent wish for the opposite to be true, nothing he could ever say would change the lad's mind. The Robin was finally leaving the nest and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.


	2. Chapter II

**Warning:** This story will elude to the eventual events of the episode "Old Wounds". There won't be blatant spoilers, just general hintings.

 **A/N:** College has decided to come in like an actual wrecking ball for me and has attempted its best to run me over physically and emotionally, so my posts from now on are going to be very, VERY sporadic... This will be finished, that I can promise though! I forwent any editing this may have needed for the sake of getting this posted. The third chapter is finished, but I may have to just post that without extra editing as well.

* * *

He'd known this would someday come, an undesired inevitability that he had dreaded from the very first moment of doubt. Yet despite all his prayers for the contrary, for Bruce to eventually see the impossibility for perfection and for Dick to hold tight to his forgiving mentality until said man saw the futility in that perfection, the wells of unending mercy that had protected their strange family unit had finally run dry.

It seemed an age ago that the lad had come to him both sorrowful and angry to have what would be their apparently final conversation over the suds-filled sink. Something inside Dick had finally snapped and Alfred knew that there would be no possibility of patching it back together like before.

And as he had dreaded from the moment the growing discord between what he considered his two "sons" had begun to mount into something none of them could ignore any longer, that admission the boy had made only caused their situation to spiral downwards from there.

At first, Dick merely stopped visiting the manner in favor of the distance his dorm at Gotham University provided. The excuses posed to his mentor for his absence had ranged from the realm of the logical and believable to the absolutely absurd.

Yet, whenever the batsignal reflected in the clouds as the streets of Gotham were shrouded in sunlight deprived shadow, he would return to the cave and don the costume with nary a word, whether it was out of some remaining sense of duty to Gotham's citizens Alfred would never know yet ponder on occasion.

But that façade of normalcy was incredibly short lived. Though his employer knew nothing of the boy's promise to give up the mantle of the Robin, Alfred was very much aware and stole himself for the night he knew inevitably had to come; and it did, in an almighty blaze of angry shouts, thoughtless and biting insults, and the squeal of motorcycle tires speeding away from Wayne Manor, from the batcave, and from anything closely resembling a bat, Bruce Wayne, or Batman.

Perhaps Alfred should have felt hurt that the boy he had again helped raise never lifted a hand in farewell, but as he descended the batcave staircase to see his employer, though stormy-faced and silently seething, gently placing the multicolored costume within its glass prison for what appeared to be the final time and run a calloused hand over the fabric to slowly smooth out the wrinkles within, he could only sense the light that had permeated their otherwise clouded lives recede as quickly as the young man fleeing down the manor lane.

From that day forward, Alfred Pennyworth felt an integral part of their lives had been torn away; their one link to the happier, brighter, sunnier side of life that Dick always managed to bring to them. The boy had always been an optimistic sort, and the butler had always thanked heaven for that. It had made his life and the life of Bruce so much less _dark_.

Now, that light was gone; and the butler felt its absence now more than ever.

So it was Alfred's deep set composure alone that held him back when the manor bell had been rung that night, the sight of the young man who he had watched disappear into the night for perhaps the last time causing his heart to swell with even more emotion than he was currently battling at the moment. He could not, however, keep the relief from showing in his posture when his gaze met Dick's as the dark mahogany doors were opened wide to receive him.

Yet the lad instead stood reluctantly on the threshold, peering inside as if something might reach out and unwillingly drag him in, raising a questioning and apprehensive eyebrow in the butler's direction. He rocked back on his heels, folding his arms loosely at his chest and allowing his gaze to wrap around his surroundings, his face illuminated out of the darkness by the warm glow of the manor lights.

"Well, Alfred, I came…"

"Very good, sir, and I thank you for responding on such short notice. Do come in," Alfred responded by stepping aside, chiding himself silently at how formal their speech had regressed into after even so truly slight a time apart.

The young man in front of him sighed, allowing some of the old sensitivity that Alfred knew still flowed beneath all the bitterness and antipathy to show through the solid mask Dick thought he had created. Icy blue eyes swimming with unspoken words and emotions met an equally conflicted pair.

"Look, Alfred, I have nothing against _you_ , but I just can't be here. If all you wanted was for me to come back and talk, you're wasting _both_ of our time," Dick spoke, his voice firm yet his gaze diverted from the elder man.

The butler stood silent for a moment, as if weighing the gravity of his next words. What was there left for him to say that he had not already spoken? He could not argue with the boy, much less fault him for his decisions despite his own convictions to the opposite. But what had compelled him to summon the lad was beyond all this petty arguing and hurt feelings, more important than any grudge harbored in bitterness, however justified.

So, Alfred Pennyworth decided to simply tell the young man, minus any padding or dancing around the issue. Bruce did not need them to wallow in self-pity, not right now.

"Master Bruce has gone missing," came the unexpected confession that caused Dick's head to snap upwards.

A huff of breath was then given in response to the butler's concession after the initial shock dissipated from his features with a barely-audible, mumbled addition of "What else is new?" to punctuate it.

"You know he does that… _A lot_."

"Yes," the butler agreed with a rather heaving sigh. "But that was three evenings ago and he was _supposed_ to return. Bruce Wayne had a party to attend that same night."

"I'm sure the guests were very disappointed," came the lad's sarcastic rejoinder that only caused the butler's eyes to minutely roll heavenward in exasperation.

"Master Dick, please… Ordinarily, I would not be alarmed. His tracking device even went down as well, but that is not an unusual happenstance as you well know."

"This is all fine and dandy, Alfred, but why tell _me_ this? I'm not his sidekick any more. If anything, tell this to _bat_ girl."

"Because, Master Dick," Alfred replied, intensity and urgency now permeating his every word and deepening the worry lines actively spreading across his face. "I just resumed receiving signals from his tracker an hour ago. He's within the city. And he's _not moving_."

" _You_ , sir,are the only one that answered my call…"

Before Dick could have time to open his mouth and decline the butler's petition, Alfred allowed some of the desperate emotion roiling through him to overtake his voice and break it slightly as he spoke, knowing full well the likely response he could receive.

" _Please_ , don't force me to beg you."

~oOo~

The consequent high-speed drive across the streets of Gotham after conceding to the butler's supplication allowed Dick time to mentally berate himself over his obvious lack of resolve. The very reason he had finally taken a stand for himself in the first place was the constant criticizing and demeaning of his methods and ideas by the Batman.

And now, after all the harsh words that they had exchanged and the disregarding of any of Dick's skills that had often saved their hides more times than he could count, the Robin who had once been so very expendable was now being called upon to save the hide of said man who "never needed saving". Ah, the irony!

If it were up to him, he would have left Bruce to figure out his own escape, as according to said man, Robin apparently had never been of any assistance to the Bat in the past. Besides, Bruce had never sent out a distress signal nor made any communication to contradict any belief of his apparent safety. He was probably engaging in an impromptu stakeout that was taking him longer than expected. It was not equally unusual for Bruce Wayne to mysteriously _miss_ a party either.

But alas, he could not deny the Wayne Manor butler no matter how hard he wished to try. The man had looked worried sick when the manor doors were swung open to greet him earlier that night, and after all the elder man had been put through, Dick could not deny him his peace of mind. For the man Dick had loved like a grandfather of sorts to plead with him as Alfred had done must have taken a great effort of self-denial to the man's proud demeanor.

It was that fact that truly caused the steely resolve he had taken great pains to resurrect to shatter like the most delicate of glass. And so, after a small amount of persuading, Dick had descended into the bat cave, whose wet and dank atmosphere he was beginning to despise, and released his costume from its transparent prison once again.

Perhaps one last quick jaunt as Robin would allow the remaining ghosts of his former life to be confined to the past where they now belonged.

The display on the cycle beeped warningly to signal the approach of the tracer's last known coordinates and Dick awoke from his deep thought to swerve down an adjoining side lane to correct his position. Not long now until the missing Bat "case" could be put to bed once and for all.

A quick glance at the tracking display showed his proximity to the storage warehouses at the dockyards, which had long since been abandoned in favor of more illegal enterprise. How ironic, he mused, that Batman's apparent location was merely a stone's throw from where they had encountered the up and coming crime lord only weeks before.

How poetic fate often was, that the place where this entire business had begun would be where the final act would play out.

Motorcycle tires squealed to a final halt outside one of the last remaining warehouses accompanying a docking area that had been tenacious enough to remain standing. The moonlight bathed the dilapidated structures of a bygone era in a cold, silvery glow, bringing illumination to some shadows but leaving the rest to be shrouded in dark uncertainty.

The sudden punctuation of wind-caught and rusted hinges letting out a strange wail in the chilling air was the only other sound to perforate the obvious silence that had immediately engulfed the entire compound upon his entrance.

The cycle tracking display continued to wink cheerfully up at him, pinpointing the location of the missing "man of the hour". Dick sat back against the plush leather seat of the cycle and removed his helmet with a resigned sigh. Well, this was it…

All possible scenarios played over in the young man's mind as he took in the surroundings drowned in shadow, ears catching the otherwise harmless rustling of last year's autumn leaves being blown against the planking of the dock. He could only guess what Bruce was up to this time, but all of his mental scenarios seemed to conclude with a thorough tongue-lashing by said elusive masked vigilante and growling, frosty words somewhere along the lines of, "If you're not going to help, then _stay out of it_."

Part of his mind compelled him to rev the cycle engine back to life and turn tail then and there, leaving Batman to whatever fate awaited him.

But a promise was a promise. And if he were truly honest with himself, Dick could not help but feel a slow and disturbing chill sliding up from the tips of his toes along his spine at the fog clinging to the water and the ground, the impossible stillness of both air and sound.

Something in his gut, whether it had been put there by years of training or was of instinct alone, warned him that something just was not right…

A quick reconnaissance sweep of the outside of the warehouse revealed nothing out of the ordinary, which only served to compound the trepidation that was already beginning to roil in the pit of the young man's stomach. Everything was too neatly placed, devoid of any information that would indicate anyone of any kind had been here, dubious intentions or otherwise. In fact, there were absolutely no forms of evidence to indicate anyone had been there _at all_.

If Bruce had decided to check the warehouse for any criminal activity, or if he had pursued said criminal under dweller into the dockyards, the batmobile would have been parked nearby. Yet, as hard as Dick looked, there was nary a tire track to mark the Dark Knight's entrance or departure, disguised or otherwise. Not to mention that the particular tracker installed in the vehicle had remained mysteriously dormant and undetectable throughout both his and Alfred's entire search.

The icy wind blowing up from the harbor, which seemed to be slowly and steadily increasing as the night wore on, caught under the folds of his cape and sent chilling tendrils into every open seam, putting the remaining hairs that were not already rigid with apprehension into high alert.

This was definitely not a simple stakeout mission, that Dick was now sure of. There was still no sign of Batman, or even anything related to Gotham's Knight for that matter, though the portable tracking monitor he had transferred to from the cycle still indicated that he was close by the current transponder location. In fact, according to the device he currently held in his hand and occasionally shook grumpily for good measure, he should be standing right on top of him (figuratively speaking, of course).

As he rounded one of the far corners of the hulking structure on his second sweeping search, the sound of an open door crashing again on rusted hinges and worn doorframe filled his ears with an unearthly cacophony of noise that caused his heart to flop in his chest as it sliced through the still air. Had it really been that long since he had roamed the back streets of Gotham City without nary a second passing thought nor a nerve on edge; when being a costumed hero stalking the streets had been as normal to him as a trip to the store?

The wind had begun to truly rise earnestly into a force of reckoning, causing the otherwise calm waters of Gotham Harbor to transform into increasingly angry-looking whitecaps, steadily growing tendrils reaching up toward the dock pylons with every gust. Following the rather unnerving sound of wailing metal and creaking wood, Robin reached both the source of the commotion and his ticket to the inside the building. The lock on the access door had been broken long ago, yet there were no other signs of willful tapering or a recent forced entry.

Why would a building which had been condemned and abandoned for years suddenly be left wide open for prying individuals (dubious or not) to poke their nose in? The cold chill that had begun earlier pooled at the nape of his neck. Something was definitely wrong…

Call it learned intuition or perhaps innate senses, but after spending more years than was healthy for a young boy fighting every form of degraded society all hours of the night, he had developed an unexplainable sensitivity to plausibly dangerous situations. This was one of those times…

After a quick glance to assure of no immediate threat, Dick quickly passed through the door and shut it behind him as noiselessly as he could muster, his senses on high alert for the most minute of sight or sound. The dank scent of rotting, dampened wood and rusting metal assaulted his nose as he began to carefully pick his way through what seemed the remains of loose crates and boxes that stretched beyond his height and lay littered all over the floor in an apparently hurried disarray.

Whoever had been here those years ago had been in a mighty big hurry to trash the place and make their getaway. Appearances proved they had been empty for a long time, however; abandoned as the bones and relics of a past and forgotten age.

Looking ahead, Dick saw a path through the debris leading to what appeared to him to be a clearing in the center of the warehouse. Scrambling over twisted wood and metal as silently as he could muster in darkness only illuminated by moonlight, he wound his way through the endless maze until he at last reached the clearing. Upon the threshold of sorts, he stopped short to take in his surroundings, observing its openness devoid of any remaining cargo, its floors surprisingly swept clean.

Of all the scenarios that Dick Grayson had envisioned earlier that night, of all the possible ways the events of this evening could have unfolded, what his eyes beheld as he took in his surroundings upon stepping out of the maze of debris and looked upward toward the rafters was enough to cause him to stagger back in momentary shock.

Looking up toward the low-lying rafters to see, his outlines defined by silvery, cold moonlight, the shadowed figure of the Dark Knight of Gotham City hanging like a ragdoll by his wrists, head hanging limply between his raised arms, and suspended in the air was not even remotely on his list.


	3. Chapter III

**Warning:** This story will elude to the eventual events of the episode "Old Wounds". There won't be blatant spoilers, just general hintings.

 **A/N** : I finally decided enough was enough, time to get this thing posted! So, this is the big kahuna, the brainchild that got this story-ball rolling in the first place. I'm pretty proud of how it turned out. It could have been edited more, but what else is new...

Be warned, it may seem like I drag this out longer than I should have, but the majority of it is intentional. You'll see why...

* * *

It took Robin a moment to overcome his disbelief at the scene that lay before him, his feet rooted to the suspiciously clean ground while his gaze remained glued to the silhouette of the self-appointed protector of Gotham hanging unconsciously by his limp wrists from the low-slung and sagging rafters of the warehouse. So blindsided was he by the completely unexpected turn of events that he took many more precious seconds than was usually necessary to come out of the shock that had rendered him immobile. A quick shake of the head to remove the cobwebs of racing thought from his mind and he was willing his feet into motion, bounding to come underneath Batman's elevated position.

His gaze worked over the apparently unconscious form of the man he had been begrudgingly sent to find, his innately acute senses scanning for immediate injuries or anything that might give him insight into his former mentor's condition. What portion of Bruce's face that he could make out underneath the sleek black cowl was ghostly pale, a stark and sobering contrast from his darkly shadowed form. A small trickle of dried blood had carved a path down the corner of the man's mouth and across his jaw, but as Dick squinted up in scrutiny, it seemed to evidence an older injury.

If Bruce really _had_ been held here for the last three nights as Alfred had said, then perhaps the butler's true fears were not so implausible after all. Right now, Robin mused as he swallowed thickly at the realization, his first priority was to tend the most immediate concerns: Batman's unconsciousness. Only after he would be able to rouse the man would he be able to gather the truth about the situation and be able to best face the fallout when in inevitably came. After all, being saved by _this_ particular person would not be very effective in lifting the Batman's spirits.

Unsheathing a batarang from his utility belt, it took Dick only mere seconds to take aim and send it into whistling motion at the chains which had been stretched across the rafters, suspending its victim in the air. Before he could do anything else, he had to cut Bruce down. The metallic _clang_ of shaped and sharpened steel colliding with its fellow reverberated between the warehouse walls despite their aged thinness, again slicing through the silent air hanging thick around them both. It was only at the ear-piercing sound did Robin's eyes again widen as the batarang collided with its target and without preamble ricocheted off with equal force, embedding in the soft dirt floor at his feet with a muted thud. Dick frowned. So much for that plan…

Looking from side to side in a last effort to ensure they were alone, Robin did the next logical thing and called to the limp form still suspended above him.

"Batman?"

The air remained thick with apprehension and choking with silence. He spoke louder.

"Batman, _can you hear me_?"

Robin sighed in frustration and intense thought as he contemplated his next possible move. This wasn't going to work...

After studying Batman's confines for several moments, the realization came to him that releasing the dangling form above seemed to hinge on unshackling whatever bound his wrists. To accomplish that, he would have to reach Bruce at his elevated position in order to free him. Luckily for them both, Dick had a trick up his sleeve that did not require his more primeval, last-resort tactic of trying to stack the old crates that lay littered around them and climb his way to the rafters.

Before he had finally hung up the cape for what he believed was for good, Bruce had been field testing a new device that had come straight from Lucius Fox himself. It had become obvious even to the lay person that their grapple guns were a staple of their arsenal and thus a major key to their success. Unfortunately, a situation that called for the need to repel alongside a structure from great heights or even to simply suspend oneself upright from a certain air-born position and accomplish any hands-free task could not be done effectively with the simple grapple gun and line.

So with a little prodding and coercing by Bruce, his faithful supplier was quick to create a prototype device and it again did not disappoint his most loyal patron. How fortunate for Dick that he had kept said device on his belt despite all that had transpired since then. He'd have to remember to thank Lucius when or if he ever saw him again.

Extending an arm and aiming at what Robin had decided looked like the sturdiest of the slowly decaying beams, he felt the strong pull of the motor dragging him skyward as he depressed the recall button after the anchor had sunk its greedy spikes into moist, moss-encrusted wood. Quickly reaching Bruce's elevation as the repelling device devoured cable, he released the button just in time to come mask to mask with the man he had been sent to find and "rescue" a _gain_. Depressing another button in the device's handle caused its metal partitions to unfold and join together to create a new disk-like configuration that he could sit on and that could support his weight.

Dick mused momentarily with nostalgic fondness that the device reminded him of the old rope swing with the cracked plastic seat that he had once found hidden away in the old garage shop of the manor, a relic from a bygone era long forgotten. He had _tried_ to erect it in the garden by tying it to one of the vastly spreading oak trees that was rooted at its center, but was quickly discouraged by a flashed glare from the perfectionist (and sporadically employed) gardener. Ah, the good old days, when everything had a much simpler meaning and when life, for him, was straightforward and clear.

After he had gotten himself relatively situated from his dangling position, he then placed his undivided attention on the strange cuffs that held the Dark Knight hostage. They were not of the simple metal design that he and Batman had used in the past. No, these were an extremely high-tech achievement, perhaps even electronically controlled by a separate device. They were of a solid, seamless material that resembled steel in its sturdiness, the smooth metal only blemished by a small green light that flashed every few seconds. This put Robin on an even higher mental alert than what his previous discoveries this night had brought him to. Time was perhaps of even greater essence, especially if they truly were not alone; the device capturing Batman's hands could be solid proof of what had before been a sneaking suspicion…

Perhaps he could expedite matters if he found an emergency release keyhole, then he could try picking the lock. A quick flick of the wrist brought his universal lock pick sliding from under the hidden compartment inside his glove and he began the search over the seamless device to, with any luck, prove his theory.

It proved not to be that simple of a solution, however. Despite his determined and valiant endeavors, the cuffs _would not_ budge no matter how hard he tried to pry open, patiently attempt to unlock, or smash at them in frustration. His exasperation at last came to a head while the foreign device continued to blink placidly up at him in spite of his persistent attempts, his growing frustration finally accumulating in an angry growl and a theatrical throwing-up of hands to signal a cessation of his efforts.

Finally, Dick sat back against the cable in defeat, feeling it stretch taunt under his weight as he did so, his thoughts swelling as memories of a similar time and situation that had befallen him were coaxed into the forefront of his mind. Only that time, it was _his_ freedom hanging literally in the balance…

* * *

" _I just can't do it!"_

 _The plaintive cry of the young boy echoed against the cold stone walls of the batcave, causing a few of the brown bats roosting overheard to startle and take flight. One of the creatures, in its haste, nearly collided with the child whose yell of frustration had sent it into motion. The boy flinched from his elevated position, hands still jerking reflexively to protect his face despite their obvious confinement. Below his feet paced the Batman, cowl discarded to reveal an even stormier countenance than the mask allowed. He looked up at the boy those tousled hair was beginning to moisten with sweat as he attempted to free his hands from the chains that were fastened to his wrists. Another angry attempt toward his release sent another tremor through the chains that were stretched taunt to raise him from the ground._

 _The boy sagged against his restraints and looked down at his mentor's disapproving frown._

" _It's useless… I can't get free!"_

 _The Batman's eyes flashed fire at the boy' words despite their icy blue depths, his expression intensified by the spreading purple and black- hued bruise masking the entirety of the left side of his face._

" _Criminals don't accept_ excuses _, Dick. They won't give you a free pass just because you're a child with a child's skill."_

 _Though the boy's eyes, which mirrored his mentor's own, swam with hurt as the words reached his ears, they too alighted with a determined blaze, a defiant glare. The cave walls again reverberated with the noise coming from the training hall, this time filling it with the sound of chains clanging together and the grunts of a young man combining in a strange chorus as the boy swung to release his locked hands. The chorus was soon to cease, however, as the boy remained dangling limply from his restraints and watched in wounded silence from his still-trapped position as the Batman simply gave him one final disappointed stare, turned his back, and limped from the room._

* * *

Dick's mind returned from its momentary recession into the past not unlike awakening from a dream, his gaze hardening in stubborn determination as his mind was set. Unlike in times past, he would complete this mission. Not by any misguided desire to receive acknowledgment from Bruce, mind you, but to independently prove his final mission a single-handed success. As time and time again had proven, and his memories reminded him, the Batman would never be satisfied with his efforts. He could not let himself or his heart be swayed by the mission into hoping that anything, or anyone for that matter, could change; so he would continue his attempts to free the man, for a promise's sake and that alone.

His last mission could _only_ be a success.

Yet despite Dick's innate senses and reflexes formed and sharpened through years of training as a boy who was perhaps too young to be placed under such a burdensome responsibility, none of the skills he could ever claim to possess could surpass his mentor's instantaneous reflexes. As Robin continued to tamper with the strange device, he was not to know nor even detect the moment when the Batman's heart quickened in response to the almost-forgotten touch of another human being, the minute sensation of movement against his arms that had long since gone numb from disuse.

Robin could not have predicted the moment when, alerted by sensations that had been withheld from him for what had seemed like a lifetime, the Batman flew forward into furious and immediate action, swinging his entire body weight forward to assault his assumed "attacker" with whatever strength and unshackled appendages he had left.

Before Robin could even contemplate letting out a squawk in protest, he found himself grasping helplessly for purchase on the repelling cable as his body was knocked backwards with the momentum of Batman's thrashing. One thing was for certain, Dick mused ruefully as he tried to suck air down his windpipe as the armored legs of the man he was trying to "rescue" squeezed the breath from his throat in a constricting scissor hold, despite being weak, disoriented, and restrained, Batman was still a formidable obstacle for anyone either criminal or lawful citizen alike to face.

For several agonizing moments, Dick attempted to shake Bruce's legs free while maintaining a frantic grip on the cable as the rafter on which he was grappled groaned warningly under their combined weight and movement. It was only until he saw Bruce's eyes truly flicker open and the haziness that had clouded them receded ever so slightly in recognition that he felt the frantic hold fall away from his neck in blessed relief. The man's strength seemed to physically flow out of his body as the Dark Knight again went limp, hanging not unlike a cloth doll from the foreign cuffs that held him. Dick watched in greedily air-gasping silence as Bruce's eyes, which he could see beneath the cowl, flicked manically across his face as if every sight were immensely important. Cracked lips parted as if words wished to pass through them but stuck in the throat dry with disuse and neglect.

Dick placed a hand on Batman's shoulder, trying to direct the man's obviously disoriented and reeling mind. It was only then, watching the man's expression change upon seeing his face, that he realized how wrong his assumption had been about the triviality of the situation.

And if he were honest with himself, it was then at that very moment as their gazes met, that the first and most minute drop of _empathy_ filtered back into his stubbornly-set conscience.

"Batman," he questioned with a raised eyebrow, trying to perhaps draw some semblance of mental acuity back into the man who was often referred to as the "world's greatest detective".

Wandering blue eyes, their icy depths remaining frosted and truly unseeing, flicked intensely to focus on his own. Yet Robin was not, could never have been, prepared for the words that grated forth from the gravely throat that had been made even more so by his predicament. He was not prepared for the single word that the Batman uttered, entirely caught off guard by the intensity with which it was spoken, the panicked urgency and flat-out _emotion_ with which it was whispered.

" _Dick?_ "

With the utterance of that single word, Bruce had in that very moment broken one of his most steadfast of rules: never reveal their true identities. It had been hard to make a habit of calling someone by their costumed persona when you knew the true face behind the mask, but Batman had been, from the beginning, very clear that when the mission was afoot, _never_ put your secret identity in danger. And in this moment, he had just forfeited every lesson he had ever taught the young man in front of him. It caught Dick completely by surprise, so much so that for a few seconds, he could not respond at all.

However, he would never get the chance…

What occurred next would haunt Dick Grayson's memories for a _very_ long time, though he would never admit that fact to a soul, living or dead. Despite all the bitterness and vitriol he had been so determined to cultivate in his heart toward the man over the last few months, whether justified or not, nothing could have prepared him for the sheer, unbridled _emotion_ he received from the Batman in those next moments. And nothing, not even the most terrible words that they had exchanged nor all the hard feelings and disagreements they had harbored, could have shielded Dick Grayson's heart from the splintering effect that was beginning to crack the wall of animosity he had erected around it.

No warning would have sufficed to alert him as the Batman he had known perhaps better than any other human being on this earth suddenly shook against his confines with renewed vigor, a wild, alien look overcoming his eyes and cowl-enshrouded features.

" _Dick_ ," came the frantic query as the man's senses and mind seemed to awaken more clearly for the first time that night. "Dick, is that _you?_ "

Said young man frowned at Bruce's gaze, which though it was centered on his own, seemed to stare through him at something only Bruce could see; it was as though, to Bruce, Dick was not there at all. His face that was exposed from the cowl seemed even paler upon inspection, causing Robin's concern to rise. A thin sheen of perspiration was beginning to shine on his face as his lips continued to murmur the young man's name despite Dick's efforts to calm the frantic calls.

"Batman," he now worriedly tried to counter as said man again struggled in vain when silence enveloped the two of them, Bruce's uncharacteristic behavior only serving to unsettle him at his very core. "Batman, it's me. It's _Robin!_ "

"Robin," the name tore out of the dry throat with incredible urgency, the cape-cloaked shoulders straining forward in their bounds as though he wished to reach out to the lad. And yet, as Dick continued to watch in bewilderment, Bruce did not see _him_ at all, but was staring wildly at something only his mind's eye could behold.

It was at that moment that the panicked cry of warning issued from deep within the Dark Knight's lungs nearly caused the one for which it was intended to fall from his perch in alarm; yet it also at least presented a clue in the young crime-fighter's mind as to a possible explanation for this bewildering behavior.

"Robin, you have to _get out of here!_ "

Dick's arms unconsciously reached out in spite of himself to try and steady the man's quaking form, his palms sensing the true extensiveness of Bruce's turmoil; the man's frame practically buzzing with tension was heightened by the pounding heart that could be felt as though it were threatening to beat its way from his chest. Another flurry of calming words and reassurances did nothing to ease the man's unconcealed distress, and Dick caught himself irrationally fearing the Batman may succeed in giving himself a heart attack.

But what on earth could be causing him to act this way? Dick could not decide for certain without more proof, but foul play (or more likely, a foul player) was noticeably at work here. Who could it be that Bruce was trying to warn him about?

It was not for the Boy Wonder to know that all of his questions regarding the present events of this night were soon be answered, his total attention given to his mentor's increasingly agitated mental state. The man was shaking in earnest now, the metal chains still bound to his cuffs ringing in an eerie cacophony of metallic rattling as he struggled, their ends still secured to the deteriorating wooden rafter beams.

Yet what finally caused the "impenetrable" wall of hostility that Dick had built around his heart to fully fracture was not to see this proud man be reduced to a cowering shell of the formidable being he had known so well by whatever bizarre curse held the Dark Knight's sane mind captive.

It was the absolutely _broken_ admission that poured from the man's feverishly moving lips as he beheld whatever strange hallucinations were parading before his eyes alone and torturing his muddled mind. After many continued moments of answering Batman's frantic calls and warnings about an unseen danger that only he could apparently sense, it was _these_ words that finally cracked the hastily constructed dam blocking the empathetic character the young man always possessed, which had always been much appreciated by Bat and butler alike.

"Robin- Dick, you have to _get out_ ," the man again exclaimed urgently, the timbre of his baritone voice finally cracking in anguish. It seemed his panic had finally come to a head, as he gave one last valiant and surprisingly strong attempt to struggle against his confines and then went entirely limp again, his chest rising and falling in great heaves from the exertion. The head shook vehemently from its drooped position between his raised arms as he spoke, his chin resting on the bat symbol emblazoned on his chest. "Have to _warn_ him… Shouldn't _be_ here…I can't- I just _can't_ lose him _too_ …"

"My fault- all _my_ fault…"

The young man in front of him felt his mouth go dry as he watched the Batman sag against his restraints even more so as his mind finally relinquished its consciousness yet again. Robin felt the shock rise up and steal the very words from his mouth, leaving him purely speechless with only the silent creaking of the wind in the wooden slats of the warehouse to punctuate the words that had just come to his ears. His eyes scanned blankly around him as the breath he had not realized he was holding expelled from his lungs with a sharp pant.

What had just been revealed to him was such a raw and private part of the Batman's mind, a dark corner that had been sealed from the outside world for as long as the man must have breathed air, that Dick did not truly know what to do with that new realization. Was this really what Bruce felt behind the indifferent emotional walls he had built around himself, was this the true driving force behind the hard-heartedness he tried to make those around him believe was what drove him to do and say the things he did?

There had been a few times when Dick had been privileged to witness that sensitive part of Bruce Wayne's character that he took such great pains to shackle and protect from the world beyond. Though they were exceptionally few, those moments would forever be emblazoned on Dick's memory…

* * *

 _Dick had never felt_ this _much pain in all of the thirteen years of life he had lived. Even when he had taken a nasty fall from the trapeze bar at the age of seven and shattered his collarbone in the process, he had not felt as helpless and just plain_ terrified _then he did at that very moment. Truth be told, it should not have surprised him how shocking to the very core the realization of his injury had been. The moment of impact had come and past by so quickly that it had taken him a few moments and a quick glance at his blood-stained glove to become acutely aware of what had truly happened._

 _He had never been_ shot _before._

 _It was true, he had been shot_ at _many a time since he had donned the cape. It was just part and parcel of the job. But somehow, however miraculous, the bullets always missed their intended targets; it was something he was eternally grateful for._

 _Yet now, here he was, his entire body racked with shock-induced tremors as he finally voiced his fear in a frightened outcry to no one in particular as the skirmish with the local criminal underbelly continued around him. Had the gray, hazy tunnels not been advancing on the corners of his vision threatening to engulf it entirely, he would have been ashamed of his lack of resolve and fortitude, his juvenile cry for help. He was Robin, partner in crime-fighting to Batman himself, not a whimpering amateur, a child. Despite that fact, he felt like one now, a helpless being feeling the blood seep persistently down the sleeve of his costume, the deep crimson stain a stark contrast against the cheerful, bright red orange of the fabric._

 _He gritted his teeth and looked down at the hole torn through his upper arm by the thug's bullet and instantly regretted the action. The advancing white haze threatened to blind him all together, the ringing in his ears drowning out all other sounds until only his pained, shallow breath remained. He was going to bleed out; he was going to_ die.

 _Yet he did not lose consciousness despite his own private wish to do so, revived only by the sensation of strong hands and arms wrapping around his quaking shoulders, supporting his back from his sunken position on the discomforting ground. His hearing, though muted, recognized the obvious lack of brutish yells from their opposition. The fight must be over…_

 _What he had not witnessed was the instantaneous reaction of his mentor at the first sound of the discharged bullet sinking into human flesh with a flash of crimson spray, the immediate fury that the Dark Knight flew into as he watched the stunned boy drop to the ground like a rock. Robin could not have witnessed the voracious tenacity with which Batman felled his opponents with a single stroke of the arm, his face, though shrouded behind the sleek obsidian cowl, contorted in hidden horror at the stain of bright crimson blood steadily spreading across the boy's costume. It was only until the Batman had urgently hurtled to his side did Robin sense his presence._

 _He could hear Bruce's voice distantly calling his_ name, _not his alias, a distinct franticness detectable in his voice as Dick felt the pain turn to white hot fire as his wound was inspected. He could not bite back the triggered outcry even if he had truly wished to. But despite his pleas for leniency for his lethal mistake, for Batman to forgive his carelessness in the line of fire, he heard none of the biting retorts or admonishments he had expected. Instead, he only heard the soothing rumble of the baritone voice Dick knew so well answering his pleas and uncharacteristically gentle hands supporting him when he could not do so himself._

" _I'm sorry, Batman. I'm_ so sorry _," the boy pleaded through eyes fogged by tears of shame and agony._

" _It's alright, Dick. It's alright."_

" _I'm right here…"_

* * *

Dick could feel his throat tightening at the memory that had unceremoniously passed before his mind's eye, an unconscious twinge causing his upper arm to seize momentarily as his mind drifted back to reality. Bruce had been so _kind_ , so _understanding_ , so very _gentle_. It was as though the man had changed into an entirely different person, as if the two variants of his personality shifted dramatically beyond his power to control. But Robin knew that to be impossible… The Batman made his own choices of his own free will, whether they were good or bad was up to interpretation. It was often those who were most important to him, however, that were left in the crosshairs…

There was one thing Robin knew for certain as he fully returned to the reality of the moment, giving another experimental tug at those cursed cuffs: this entire situation reeked of an outside influence, of a larger power at work manipulating them not unlike puppets on a string; someone who wanted to watch the Batman suffer under his control, a person who found it sickly fascinating to watch a human being cower in fear. It was with that realization that Dick's eyes widened and his heartbeat quickened in his chest as the missing pieces of this mysterious puzzle finally linked together both in reality and in his mind.

It was then that the sudden crackle of speakers screaming to life also caused Robin's gloved hands to unconsciously fly up to cover his ears, his skin turning cold as the hostile brightness from a projection screen illuminated the dingy warehouse in a glaring, sterile light.

Before them both, larger than life on an unknown screen encompassing the entire north wall of the building and whose grizzled form grinned with a grimy smile that caused the young man's spine to shiver with chills, was none other than the _Scarecrow_ …

"Ah, Robin," the voice dripping with false joviality spoke, his long, spindly fingers steepled in front of the grisly face. "I'm glad you responded to my signal so promptly."

The adrenaline surging through his every nerve willed Robin's forgotten voice back into immediate action as the villain's words caught him by surprise. The suspicion that had been tickling the back of his mind all evening had just been dragged from its depths and tauntingly displayed before his eyes: this w _as_ a trap.

" _Your_ signal?"

"Why yes, it was _I_ who reactivated his transponder. Now that you have arrived, my experiment can proceed as planned."

The villain's words caused Dick to instinctively flinch, his fists balling tightly as his mind reeled over the possible scenarios this professor's so-called "experiments" could take. They all meant terribly twisted things, of that he knew all too well.

"What sick thesis are you trying to prove now, Crane," Robin spat in spite of his better judgement, knowing full well the futility of attempting to reason with these psychopaths. His future words were halted in mid-formation, however, as the Batman convulsed ever-so-slightly, a small moan escaping his pale lips.

From the corner of his eye, Robin could see Scarecrow on the screen smile disgustingly at the Batman's obvious suffering. A white hot flare of anger erupted in the young man's chest as he heard the criminal's next words.

"That you will see soon enough…"

Instantly convicted of the true danger they were currently in, Robin began desperately attempting to break the cuffs that held the Dark Knight prisoner. They needed to escape _now_. Unsheathing a batarang, he began stabbing the smooth metal of the cuffs with the pointed wingtip but to no avail. He reasoned that they must be controlled by the Scarecrow, wherever he was… Abandoning that futile method, he leaned forward and grasped Bruce's shoulders with both hands, shaking them as persistently and yet as gently as he could muster. He needed help, curse the realization that took every ounce of his pride and tossed it out the window: Robin needed _him_.

But despite his persistent efforts, Bruce would simply not awaken again, his head lolling from side to side between his raised arms as Robin endeavored to shake him harder still. A pang of sickness stabbed through Dick's heart at the increasing roughness of his attempts to bring the Dark Knight back into reality. Ruefully, the phrase "beating a dead horse" fluttered up from the back of his mind, causing him to bite his lip in an attempt to ban the thought back to where it came.

"Batman? Batman, wake up!"

The only response he received was another weak groan issued from deep within the man's gravelly chest. Dick could not quell the increasing panic that had begun to tighten in his chest even if he tried.

"Having trouble rousing him, I see," Scarecrow interjected companionably as he looked on, a vile spectator observing that which he had no right to be witness to. "I created a special mixture of fear toxin for this _particular_ experiment."

A feral, aggressive growl of frustration and loathing tore from Dick's throat unhindered at the words, but the Scarecrow merely ignored it and rambled on.

"It seems to be working quite well, isn't it?"

With one last hostile snarl not dissimilar to the growls that he often heard while passing the shadowed cages of the circus animals as a child, Robin plunged the batarang that he still clutched tightly in his gloved palm directly into the green button still lit with a cheerful winking glow in a final attempt to free his mentor and initiate their escape from this madman. The button shattered instantly as the razor sharp tip sunk into its depths and its light fluttered dim, yet a wailing claxon instantly radiating from the device upon the batarang's impact caused Robin to lean away as his ears rung in despair at another harsh sound grating against their delicate drums.

"Ah, ah, ah," tsked the Scarecrow as he shook his head, wagging a finger in mock censure. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. That little device there is quite an achievement of mine. You see, if anyone other than myself opens those shackles, they're going to receive a nasty surprise."

Scarecrow took a moment to gesture expansively to the warehouse surrounding them and then to the controller he gripped in a long, slender hand. Yet upon seeing the villain's gesture toward their surroundings, Robin still only saw the empty crates and debris littered about the building.

"What are you going to do," Robin spat as his mind raced to deduce the villain's next possible move. "gas us again?"

The Scarecrow leaned back in the chair on which he sat with an incredulous expression now gracing the grizzled features.

"My dear Boy Wonder, how naïve you are… You see, my experiments have proved that predictability allows one to become complacent- relaxed- in the presence of their fears. They believe their knowledge of the unknown puts themselves back into control. Knowing this, as a researcher of science, I must now introduce an independent variable."

"What they are unaware of is that," Scarecrow paused, his brows knitting together in an intensifying gaze as he leaned forward in his seat to emphasize his next words.

"Fear," Crane's voice drifted to a halt for effect only to resume in an even quieter, more menacingly drawn out whisper. "…is necessary for _survival_."

The next moments that followed Dick would remember with a stinging clarity he later suspected that, upon reflection, would never dissipate. It was as though time had slowed beyond his ability to comprehend, each movement, each thought allowed every passing second to be forever etched with perfect clarity into the mind of the beholder. It was as though he was struggling in a pit of quicksand, and the more he flailed, the more he sank further into the dark void that was his subconscious fears. Yet they were no longer in the back of his mind where he had wished them to stay, but had been dredged to the surface as they were paraded before him in reality, all the while causing the vile creature of a man watching from afar great satisfaction in the success of his "scientific endeavors".

Scarecrow continued to prattle on about his effective experiments furthering the advances in his study of fear, even taking great pains to impress upon the young Robin's mind how influential several of their previous encounters had been on said successes. But the Boy Wonder was just not listening.

Everything was falling through, like a trick floor in a "haunted" Halloween attraction. His every attempt at releasing his mentor was futile; every gadget on his belt, every tool in his arsenal was rendered useless against the Scarecrow's bonds. He attempted to hack into the shackles electronically with a device that had served him and Batman well in the past. It was rendered merely a mess of crackling white sparks and grey, acrid smoke.

What made matters infinitely worse as his every avenue failed spectacularly before his eyes was not the failure in itself, but the Professor's running commentary on every hiccup, antagonizing every miscalculation he made, reminding him of his inadequacies at every turn.

"Fear has innumerable forms," the Scarecrow had spoken sagely after another of Robin's failed attempts, his head tilting slightly as he stared at the young man with unnerving intensity.

"I would deduce yours might be one of failing a certain person in your life? A friend perhaps… A _family member_?"

Dick gritted his teeth in a soundless growl. He _must not_ let himself be distracted by the villain's efforts to catch him off guard, no matter how closely his words might hit home. Bruce needed him to stay focused. He _could not_ let him down, not this time…

Another attempt at endeavoring to use the means at his disposal was to heat the shackles with the compact blow torch tool and thus fry its circuitry. Despite its effectiveness in theory, it only succeeded in scorching the outer metal covering and the Batman's hands inside them as the metal signaled its growing hotter in temperature with a subtle glow.

The sudden pain lurched the unconscious protector of Gotham back into reality for a mere moment with a strained and barely audible outcry, to which Dick felt an inextinguishable and wrenching pang of guilt at having caused the man even more pain. His efforts were immediately ceased in favor of striving to calm the man as Bruce again flew into a fury of semiconscious panic as the fear toxin being pumped by his thumping heart through his veins paraded more vicious hallucinations across his mind's eye. Dick felt his emotional fortitude beginning to waver as he again tried to soothe a man paralyzed by his worst and most secret fears. He felt the anger bubble up from his chest at the being who could hardly be called a man still watching intently, though he had now gone silent in observation at the Dark Knight's suffering.

The episode passed much quicker than the last, Bruce's overtaxed body again retreating into the blissful realm of the unaware, which Dick thanked Heaven for the mercy it was.

Robin took his frustrations out on the cuffs with another batarang, hacking into the accursed device with all of his strength. It was no use…

It was then, as he finally felt his chest tighten with the realization of his true failure and the sight of the Scarecrow's triumphant and self-satisfied expression that was actively spreading on his face as the Robin sagged wearily in apparent defeat, that a rebel determination began to fill the young man's heart, a stubbornness that had once been a frustration for others now dragging forward the last bit of his strength. An idea emerged in his feverishly calculating mind.

Reaching down toward the intended compartment of his utility belt, Dick sucked in an anticipating breath as he waited for the best moment to strike. This was it; this was his last ditch effort, the final plan of attack. Flicking open the compartment's flap, his gloved finger ran over the tazing device in anticipation, the pointed prongs tangible through his padded fingertips. This was the last avenue he could come up with, the last method in his arsenal. The likelihood that it would succeed in opening the cuffs was small. The likelihood that the electrical current would pass through the metal cuffs and thus through the two of them, however, was quite strong.

Desperate times called for desperate measures…

As the Scarecrow, propelled by an almost childish giddiness at what he perceived was an absolute victory, continued to babble on about the triumphs for his cause, Robin took the moment's distraction for what it provided, unsheathed his weapon with a flick of the wrist, and sunk its prongs into the ragged opening where the now shattered light had blinked only moments before.

The next thing his groggy mind registered was the ground instantly rising up to collide with his back with inexorable force, successfully knocking every precious breath of air from his lungs and rendering the base of his spine numb for a few of the precious seconds that remained to them. Willing his swimming vision to clear, he turned his head to look at the form of the Dark Knight laying mere inches from him on the warehouse floor, a muddled, unmoving heap of limbs and obsidian cape. It was only then that his gaze cleared enough to witness the entire contents of the warehouse be set ablaze in a glaring barrage of hostile red lights that nearly resembled the eyes of a demonic horde. Self-arming explosives... Crane was not bluffing after all; his flabbergasted and yet livid expression at what had just occurred a vivid proof of that fact…

Gritting his teeth as pain shot from the small of his back down his legs in stinging waves, Dick leapt up from the dirt and charged over to the unconscious heap that was the Batman, hoisting the elder man's arm and shoulder over his own. The air around them suddenly erupted with hundreds of shrieking claxons warning of impending detonation. The atmosphere instantly became chokingly thick with suffocating heat that rippled instantly through the air.

 _This was gonna be a close one._


	4. Chapter IV

**Warning:** This story will elude to the eventual events of the episode "Old Wounds". There won't be blatant spoilers, just general hintings.

 **A/N** : Here we are; the conclusion to this story! A long time in coming, I apologize, but hopefully worth the wait. Just rapping up and imparting final thoughts.

HOWEVER, if you find after finishing this story that a "sweeter" ending would be more to your liking...fear not! An alternative ending/resolution/batfam moment is going to be posted in my short fic collection "The War Goes On" along with this chapter. The link to it will be at the end of this chapter.

Why did I not just post it on here, you ask? Because that little fic didn't fit the intended tone of this story as a whole.

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"I've done all I can, gentlemen. It's up to him now…"

Dr. Leslie Thompkins stepped back from the table and gazed in wonder at the two men standing opposite her, their makeshift hospital room shrouded within the dank walls of the batcave. How they survived the stressors of this particularly unique life she would never know nor be able to comprehend…

Had she been told all those years ago that the little dark-haired, blue-eyed son of one of her closest friends, the boy she had counseled through the traumas of his childhood, would eventually become one of the greatest of Gotham's myths, she would have laughed the notion straight out of her office.

Yet here they all were, brought together by one man's unquenchable thirst for the same justice he had once been so brutally denied.

Perhaps none of them circled around the bedside that night would have believed this would be their lot in life, whether that fact was a blessing or curse was up for individual debate. She dared not think of the strife and struggles that they must all face as the war for Gotham's virtue waged on, the scars of every battle being so much more than merely skin deep.

Leslie was acutely aware of the unique bond the three men shared, their perilous lifestyles creating a deeply rooted rapport that perhaps even transcended the bonds of family. She was also aware that, though the strange lives these men lived forged their closeness into a stronger force, it was also just as quick to ruthlessly and effectively tear it apart.

And if the rumors floating through both elite social circles and drug-infected alleys alike carried any truth in them about the mysterious disappearance of the Robin from Batman's side, then perhaps her fears and suspicions of the true cost of their crusade were not so improbable after all.

Both men standing opposite her wore expressions that were haggard from the events that night had laid before them, one made even more-so by the angry and still sluggishly bleeding gash that carved a path across the young man's forehead. The wound only served to compound the pained and conflicted look that visibly swam across the lad's features as he had watched her tend to his guardian, his usually boisterous and chatty demeanor entirely forgotten in favor of exhausted, contemplative silence.

The other man beside the bed stoically wore a similar expression with years of experience and practice to thoroughly mask its existence, although its presence was none-the-less noticeable to a trained and knowing eye. It had not been the man's duty to question decisions that were not his to make, yet the pained look that creased the worry lines etched into the older man's face as he looked down at the man he raised bore the true confliction of the butler's conscious.

Though he had never breathed a word in condemnation of the Batman, Leslie could merely study the butler's face running with so many emotions to see the obvious responsibility that Alfred must feel for Bruce's predicament.

It was only natural for a father (or in this case, father-figure) to feel that way, after all…

They had all been brought together by a force outside their ability to control, encapsulated in a crusade that perhaps even the Crusader himself did not fully comprehend. And now, they were brought together once again; yet this time, it over the Batman's hospital bed. It had become almost like an unwelcome reunion when her phone rang with the inevitable plea for help, and this time had been no exception to that rule.

She had just finished analyzing the toxicity evaluations on the Batman's blood, implementing cleansing procedures for the Scarecrow's horrid fear toxin and administering the correct antidotes until she was satisfied with the results.

After three frenzied, nightmarish hours of battling the disgusting effects of the unseen torture device being pumped through her patient's bloodstream, hearing his unstifled cries as the war being waged for both his body and soul came to a climax, she could finally allow herself the welcome luxury of taking a deep, calming breath and giving her rigid posture final permission to slump in relief. It always seemed a baptism by fire for her whenever she heard Bruce Wayne's butler on the other end of her telephone.

The nightmare had finally passed, and the tension running taut within the three beings in that dark cave seemed to slide away like the welcome receding of the ocean's tide.

The heart monitor she had installed moments ago echoed cheerfully each blessed heartbeat of the man lying still and pale under the white sheets of the bed, its erratic racing now eased into the peaceful beats of sweet sleep. She absentmindedly patted the still hand of the man she often privately fancied was like the son she never had gently despite his inability to sense or appreciate the touch, tucking it underneath the blanket.

"Will he be alright, Doctor?"

Her gaze rose to meet the crystal blue orbs of the aged butler whose aquamarine depths betrayed a soul had been through more than a man could in three lifetimes. She squeezed his well-dressed arm reassuringly and allowed herself a small smile after the tenuous few hours they had endured before they had known for sure the outcome of the Batman's condition.

"Knowing Bruce, Alfred, after a few days you'll have to chain him to that bed."

The butler chuckled at the welcome lightheartedness, his eyes twinkling with unspoken gratitude and obvious, unmasked relief.

"Then perhaps you'd like something hot to soothe the nerves, Doctor? I have some herbal tea that does wonders…"

She allowed the smile that had broken the strained mask that had hardened her face to widen at the elder man's suggestion, his responsibilities as the Wayne Manor butler never entirely forgotten and his selflessness never overcome.

"Thank you, Alfred. I think we could all use some," Leslie responded, voice cracking with relief at the crisis having finally passed.

It was at that moment that she because acutely aware of their third member's conspicuous silence and turned to address Bruce's ward. "Don't you think so, Dick?"

Turning toward the countertop on which the young man had been sitting with arms crossed and resting on his knees in what she could instantly detect was true weariness from the battle, she blinked at the now empty space. A quick turn of the head caught him making his hurried escape toward the shadowed steps leading to the surface and subsequently the manor above.

She could not help but chuckle to herself at how much like Bruce he was becoming (whether or not he would admit so was another story entirely), especially when it came to sneaking away to avoid the poking and prodding they both equally detested so much.

"Nice try, young man, but it's high time we took a look at _you_ too."

His shoulders rose noticeably in an unconcealed cringe at being caught in his escape attempt, yet he immediately turned on heel and obeyed her summons (though begrudgingly). Yet when he reached her, he did not sit on the examining table like she had anticipated, instead stopping short as though he did not wish to come any nearer.

She took the detachment for what it truly meant, and did not needle him as she often had in the past for refusing to be helped. She could not imagine what was roiling inside the lad's mind at this moment, an entirely inhuman amount of responsibility surely weighing on those ever-so-young shoulders.

"I'm fine, Leslie, really…"

"You look like you've been through a warzone, Richard. Don't you think that gash could use a few stitches?"

The young man's brows pinched together at the thought of yet again being stitched together like some old garment, the action causing his hand to unconsciously reach up to tenderly explore the angry wound as though he wished to prove its existence. Upon touching the offending slash, he flinched perceptively and pulled his hand away to reveal a small stain of residual blood left on the fingertips of his green gauntlet.

Shrugging, he replied with a forced nonchalance, "Nothing a band-aide can't fix…"

"Dick…"

With her gentle admonishment and pointed gaze, the façade fell perceptively from his frame with a sagging of the shoulders and the bowing of his head. He instantly lifted his head, however, and returned her gaze, the blue depths silently pleading for her understanding.

An entirely different lad stood before her now, the bubbly demeanor that so set him apart having completely vanished; her heart clenched at the thought of what sacrifices they truly made for others' security and happiness, if it stole a young person's joy of life.

"I just need some time alone to," he paused at this, as if searching for the right word. "think…"

Without waiting for her to reply, he turned on heel and shed his gauntlets and cape with a practiced ease that Leslie was sure was due to more hours spent under the cape and cowl than perhaps in his own clothes. She would let him go this time, not because his injuries were truly minor, for they did need tending to, but because she understood that in those uncertain times, the boy who was swiftly growing into a man needed to sort through the matters of his heart undisturbed.

Yet before he could melt into the shadows of the batcave almost as easily as his mentor, she spoke softly to his retreating form, "You did good tonight, Dick. He'll be proud…"

The young man known as Robin stopped dead at her words yet did not turn around, speaking in a volume almost imperceptible to her ears, "If only it were that simple."

"If tonight has proven anything," Leslie continued, hoping to impart some comfort to the young man in obvious turmoil. "it's that he needs you, regardless of whether he'll admit it or not."

"I don't know what he would do without you…"

The young man turned at her last words, a gentle ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and crinkling at the corners of his eyes. For a single moment, the bright young lad she had once known, the young man who could light up a room just by cracking a smile, stood before her.

"Me neither…"

And with that, like a plume of smoke scattered by the wind, he was gone. The cave was quiet yet again, with only a heart monitor to permeate the silence.

~oOo~

Leslie's words ran over in Dick's mind like a tape on continuous reply as he watched the clock on the dimly lit screen of the batcomputer evidence the passage of yet another minute. He leaned back into the plush leather of the chair and let out a sigh he did not know his lungs had been holding.

" _I don't know what he'd do without you…_ "

If what had transpired this night had not happened, Bruce would be finding out just what that would have meant. But it _had_ happened, and now the young man could only gather up his shattered resolve and attempt to make sense of the emotions swirling through him.

After all they had been through that night, after seeing a man Dick had thought he had known better than anyone else expose the most private and sheltered part of his soul to the very last person who currently deserved to be witness to it, he could no longer allow his bitterness to rule his heart and his head.

In times past, he had mistakenly believed that the Bat's moral codes were the most treasured and sacred parts that made up his soul and gave purpose to the life he led. But after the events of that night, he came to the realization that, perhaps, he had been wrong after all.

Perhaps it was not the fact that his perfect plans had been questioned that had caused many of the most infamous of Bruce's uproars. And it was with that realization, discovered under the decaying rafters of a rigged warehouse, that Dick's vivid anger toward his mentor had been scattered like leaves in an autumn wind.

Perhaps all those years of impossible goals and unattainable standards were not to remind the Robin that he could never surpass his teacher or satisfy some insecurity in the teacher himself, but instead was an attempt to keep at bay one of Bruce's greatest fears now laid bare and open by Crane's toxin: losing yet _another_ person he cared about.

However misguided his ways of attempting to keep his loved ones safe from harm and show them how much he truly cared, there was now no doubt in Dick's mind that Bruce's intensions were pure. Despite all the unforgiveable things Bruce had said and done in the past and all the opposing ideals they had fought over, Dick could not, if he truly searched the depths of his heart and soul, fault Bruce for allowing himself to open his heart and c _are_.

If the greatest sin Bruce Wayne ever committed in the strange life he lived was to care _too much_ , then no man, much less Dick himself, could fault him for that…

Despite it all, he still could not fool himself into believing that everything could return to the way it was before. The years of bitterness harbored from being pushed aside so many times had not suddenly and magically dissolved into distant, buried memories. Dick felt the same way; he still could not allow himself to completely forgive Bruce for all the miseries that he had caused Dick and everyone that surrounded him and his strange crusade.

Despite his strong feelings, however, the events of this night turned what had been a black and white issue in Dick's mind and flipped his perception of said issue upside-down.

If these were Bruce's true fears, if this is what had been the driving force behind every argument they had slogged through, every miscommunication and every disagreement, then every reason that had justified Dick's anger towards Bruce had been torn apart that night in a warehouse fighting demons he could not see and fears he could never  
have comprehended.

He was mad at the man, and for every good reason he could think of. But this… This had completely blindsided him, threw him from the path he had been so determined on, and he was truly unsure of what he should do next.

After tonight, all the things that he had found to be bitter over, to grumble about, and to despise seemed so… _trivial_.

Yet there was one thing Dick Grayson was sure of, one thing he knew he could not deny in his heart: he would be sitting at that bedside when morning light returned.

Because sometimes a person does not need to be given what they deserve, regardless of how severe their actions may have been in the past or how truly hurtful they had been. _Sometimes_ , a person deserves better than what they've given. And after tonight, Bruce Wayne did not deserve to have his fears go unresolved and unaddressed. At the very least, Dick owed him that much.

The ties that bound their strange troop together were, when all pretenses were stripped away and the truth was laid bare, stronger than any divisiveness that ever threatened to tear it apart. In the end, they were _family_ , and for now, _that_ bond was strong enough.

 _Fin_

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Thank you for reading! And now, for those who wish for a sweeter resolution/h/c batfamily moment, the link to the ficlet: [ s/11679225/14/The-War-Goes-On]


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